A StoryTeller's Dream

About The Author

.

.

.

IronHorse

( The Wonderist )

.

His creative endeavors began in 1976 with a journal of poetry and prose written to celebrate a love affair and subsequent marriage called The Diamond, whose pages became the elements of storytelling venues and weddings over the next three decades, which eventually grew to encompass a full-time pursuit as an artist, poet, inventor, and storyteller in 2006 . . .

through this enterprise the stories were made accessible to thousands of people of all ages, from all over the country, who would leave his side with smiles on their faces far brighter than when they had arrived . . . and knowing that what they had just heard and experienced had never come their way before in their lifetime . . .

and believing that this storyteller’s spirit has been blessed with a unique ability to convey the simplest of truths about their absolute significance within the mystery and majesty of God’s glorious Design . . . and that his dream could live on in their hearts as an infinite echo, for as long as they cared to remember that it all was born in a single little word called hope . . .

.

.

The Berth, of A Legend

(of Days gone by)

.

.

there is something delightfully odd going on down at the Hammock Shops in Pawleys Island, for about a month ago there appeared, out of the blue, a fine piece of wooden craftsmanship in the form of a kiosk, set along the oak and magnolia-lined avenue of quaint little shops, tucked in between a Christmas store and a southwestern-style gift shop called Three Feathers, and seen from the window and assorted bird-feeders of the Audubon Gallery, and overlooking the cobble-stoned courtyard of this historic colony of shopkeepers, candle-makers, and restaurateurs . . .

just about every afternoon, there sits a man, usually sporting a straw fedora and almost always some sort of muscle shirt or tanktop, and generally an amiable smile as he offers up a congenial greeting, in hopes that he can draw in the passers-by to listen to a story or two, and thereby to gaze at some truly remarkable objects that sit atop the kiosk that are surely capable of generating quite a varied and sometimes awe-struck response from those who happen along . . .

while ambient music plays from a pair of Bose speakers built into the kiosk, he begins to tell his stories, usually commencing with a tale of how he came to be there, and how he came upon an idea that, so far, has never been seen before, in the form of an amazing, fiery ball of light, which he literally gives away to those who are willing to support his endeavor, and listen to his equally remarkable stories . . .

the mechanism is quite simple in design, as well as functional, practical, and certainly decorative, and therefore an obvious enhancement to his storytelling process, which, and more to the point, tries to convey to the hearts of those he captivates, that they too can begin to tell their tales, via the lost art of storytelling . . . and to gather around, with friends and family, to recapture the spirit of togetherness, to listen to the symphony of the moments of their lives, and, to rediscover the mystery, magic, and majesty of romance . . .

this, he says, is The StoryTeller’s Dream, a way in which, as in the days of old, legends are born, and kept alive, around that timeless and spellbinding element . . . a spark, a flame, a fire, or a ball, of light . . .

the stories he reads or recites come from a book he has authored, and which, he claims, is now over 3,000 pages . . . a never-ending story of beautifully poetic and engagingly romantic verse, about kings, and castles, and of ladies fair, of knights, and swords, and horses, and of angels, and of the wonder of Camelot, and all wrapped around a simple fairy-tale, of hope, and fulfillment, and of course, love . . . and when asked his name, the storyteller smiles, and offers his hand, and says, “my name is Sky, but you will know me always as the Iron Horse”. . .

and now, as the summer sun starts to settle into the days of autumn, and as the tourists begin to board their planes and caravans to wind their ways back home, the storyteller begins to wonder how he will manage over the winter months, and how he might go about making the local townsfolk aware of his presence in the community in which he now calls home, and how he might reach into their hearts, to offer up a way that will surely bring their loved ones together, if only once in a while, to gather around for a tale or two, and begin to tell their stories, to create a legacy, to build their legends, around a bright and beautiful ball, of light . . .

.

.

* * *

.

.

in July of 2006, I began producing and giving these FirePots away at my kiosk, for the cost of buying a story, and up until June of 2009, had created over 2,000 (along with over 13,000 FireBalls – made out of DuraFlame Firelogs) which found their way into the hearts and homes of some truly remarkable friends and acquaintances from over 40 States across the US . . . and ironically, prior to 2006, the word “firepot” was not even in the dictionary . . .